When Lo Quen brought the nine dragon egg fossils before the sisters, the two women immediately gathered close. Holding their breath, they carefully lifted the exquisite eggs into their hands, studying them with wonder, unable to let go.
In Tyria, they had never seen a dragon egg. Every one of them had been hoarded by the greedy Bloodmage.
Lo Quen watched in silence, his thoughts turning.
Though he now possessed the eggs, this was only the first step. Hatching them was the true challenge.
In the original tale, Daenerys Targaryen had hatched her dragons upon Khal Drogo's pyre. It was not mere fire that awakened them, but the combined sacrifice of her stillborn child, the Horselord's life, and the blood magic of a witch. A chance event that could never be repeated.
The red priestess Melisandre had once told Stannis Baratheon: to awaken a true dragon, the blood of a king must be the key.
But where could he possibly find such elements?
And even if he succeeded in hatching them, how could he command them as the Dragonlords of Valyria once did?
These eggs were born of Valyrian blood magic. Lo Quen was no Dragonlord, and he doubted whether the system could grant him mastery over Valyria's dragons.
He set aside his doubts and told the sisters, "We'll leave first. Once the Dragon Soul Guard have finished their sweep of Tyria, we'll send them to search the sorcerer's tower in detail."
They descended to the tower's base. There, a squad of Dragon Soul Guards stood in grim silence, herding hundreds of bloodstained, terrified survivors of Tyria onto the steps below the ruined tower. Some among them were clearing heaps of monster corpses and rubble from the stairway.
One Dragon Soul Guard, broader and taller than the rest, his armor scarred with countless old blade marks, stepped forward. His salute was stiff, his voice flat and mechanical. "Lord, the search is complete. Survivors: three hundred and seventeen."
Lo Quen's gaze swept over the survivors, shaken and trembling like startled birds. He turned to the sisters. "Tyria has become a ruin. It can no longer protect anyone. We must take them away."
But Jaelena slowly shook her head, worry clouding the depths of her icy violet eyes. "Lord, Tyria's people once tried to leave this cursed land. Yet soon after leaving ground tainted by blood magic, their bodies began to rot. Flesh melted from them like wax, life drained away, and they perished in agony beyond imagining."
The air seemed to harden around them, the silence heavy with the stench of blood.
The venom of the curse, its persistence and cruelty, far exceeded even Lo Quen's expectations.
Jaelena lifted her hand and pointed firmly north. Her gaze pierced the swirling gray mists as if she could see beyond them to a far shore. "Across the Smoking Sea lies another land. There, the remnants of Valyria built a stronghold called Oros. Separated from the ruined capital by the vast sea, it is far safer than Tyria. Perhaps we could find refuge there."
Lo Quen asked, "Are there ships?"
Jaelena nodded. "After the Doom, countless adventurers, driven by greed, ventured into this cursed land. In the end, they perished with their dreams, and their ships remain stranded in the shallows of a northern harbor."
A spark of relief stirred in Lo Quen. He could carry the sisters as a dragon, but with so many Dragon Soul Guards, ships were essential.
"There's no time to waste," Lo Quen said firmly, his tone sharp with command. "Tell the survivors to prepare at once. Only the bare necessities—food, water, clothing. Gather here within one hour!"
Jaelena nodded and quickly strode toward the frightened survivors, her voice strong and clear as she began issuing orders.
At that moment, another squad of Dragon Soul Guards returned, dragging heavy wooden carts piled with Valyrian weapons salvaged from the battlefield and ruins—serpentine curved blades, spears with blunted heads, armor plates corroded with rust or shattered outright.
Lo Quen stepped forward to inspect them.
Disappointment flickered across his eyes. Not a single weapon bore the intricate runes of blood magic.
It seemed that even at the height of Valyria's glory, such rare artifacts—capable of storing and channeling magic—were treasures as scarce as dragon eggs, far beyond the reach of common soldiers.
Jaelena stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over the heap of battered steel. Her brows knit tightly. "Something's wrong. Terys' Valyrian steel sword isn't here."
She remembered with sharp clarity the chaos when the city walls finally gave way. "We fought side by side at the collapsing gate, trying to hold back the flood of monsters. He was buried beneath a tide of claws and scales within moments, outnumbered many times over. Survival was impossible."
Yet among neither the weapons the Dragon Soul Guards had pulled from the sea of corpses nor the remains scattered across Tyria's streets was there any trace of Terys or his distinctive blade.
The eerie absence was like a hidden undertow beneath calm waters.
"He's still alive?" Lo Quen thought of the man he had first met upon arriving in Tyria, his defiant, reckless demeanor leaving a vivid impression.
"I can't be sure." Jaelena's voice was cold, edged with suppressed fury and deep disdain. "Terys was always sly and craven, endlessly fawning over the Bloodmage. Perhaps the moment he saw the walls failing, he slipped away. By now, he's likely cowering in some filthy corner, watching our every move."
She turned to Lo Quen, her expression seeking permission. "Lord, allow me to send another squad to search the last areas where he might be hiding."
Lo Quen considered briefly, then nodded.
He added in a voice that carried the weight of conclusion: "Whatever the result, once matters here are finished, we sail. We leave Valyria behind forever."
Jaelena and Janice exchanged a look, their eyes reflecting a tangle of emotions—relief, uncertainty, and a faint spark of anticipation for what lay ahead.
The Oath of the Flame Knight had bound their lives and fates to Lo Quen's chariot with invisible chains.
And now, freed from the curse of blood magic, it felt as if a heavy shackle had fallen away. The vast and unfamiliar world beyond seemed filled with the promise of rebirth.
Janice immediately set to work, commanding the Dragon Soul Guards to haul the relatively intact Valyrian steel weapons to the harbor in batches.
The rest of the guards, tireless as undead worker ants, poured once more into Tyria's ancient underground libraries and the crumbling wizard's tower, carrying out a final, sweeping search.
Janice drove the Dragon Soul Guards with unrelenting energy.
Strange glass candles, bundles of ghost grass radiating faint magical pulses, heavy tomes inscribed with Valyria high runes, alchemical devices and magical implements glowing with ominous light, fine Valyria silverware, uncut gemstones and crystals, sacks of old coins—every object that held value, knowledge, or wealth was methodically carried out and piled at the harbor, ready for loading.
Lo Quen used the chance to draw magic from the ghost grass.
At the same time, he brooded in silence.
His magic capacity had already surpassed a hundred thousand. Once he left Valyria, how would he replenish it?
Drawing from the air was impossible. The world was in a magical low tide, its atmosphere too thin of magic.
That left only one option: absorbing magical items.
Among Valyria weapons, only those engraved with blood magic runes contained enough magic to be worth drawing from. Ghost grass was by far the best source.
This was why he intended to bring it with him.
The ghost grass taken from the wizard's tower still had its roots attached—he could try cultivating it outside someday.
Of course, he would need to find other methods too.
"I nearly forgot about that thing!" Lo Quen's eyes snapped open as he remembered the mysterious black stone at the base of the tower, the one that had filled him with a deep, gnawing unease.
...
[Upto 40 chapters ahead for now]
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